


The Sea, Swells and Swallows

by thesunkid



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunkid/pseuds/thesunkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim meets Dick on a yacht and has a little too much champagne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea, Swells and Swallows

**Author's Note:**

> Awkward AU in which Jason never died, Dick and Bruce aren't as angry with each other, Janet Drake lives, and Tim is as normal as Tim can be. I wrote this just because I wanted to scream and couldn't actually do it without scaring people. Also first time writing in present tense (I tend to prefer past), so we'll see how this goes...

Though the party is in full swing, Tim is curled up on the bow, half-finished champagne dangling from his fingers.  The railing is cool to his forehead, as is the spray rhythmically kicking up with each bounce of the yacht.  He was there for his parents.  The new housekeeper had called them, concerned about his long nights stalking the streets with camera in hand and even longer afternoons holed up in the dark room—she meant well, she really did; she was just a little  _too_  nosy sometimes.  His father had phoned him a few hours later about some gala held in Bruce Wayne’s honor.

“You should go,” he’d said, “Talk to people, get your face out there.”

He hadn’t needed to see his face to know it wasn’t up for debate.  It was time to play the dutiful son.  He’d agreed.  Just this once, he’d exchange his worn jeans and plain hoodie for the suit stashed in the back of his closet, and as much as it’d pain him, he’d put down his camera and pick up a glass, and put on a smile.  He could do this, it was just one night.  Even Batman had days off, right?

The cold metal is unforgiving as he rubs his forehead into bars.  It’s just what he needs at the moment; something solid and resolute, something that won’t disappear on him for months on end with just phone calls and emails for a connection.  In the distance the band warm ups.  Their experimental taps and notes barely make it out onto the deck before being swallowed by the sea.  It’s a little melodic in a sense.  The rise and fall of the ship; the rush and slap of the waves against the hull; they beat out a strange sort of cadence.  One, he thinks, could welcome someone home.

But not Tim, never Tim.  He prefers a different sort of quiet.  The kind found coating the city’s alleys and corners; that little space in an abandoned building offering the best angle, the best lighting, the best view.

He lets out a small sigh, sagging forward a bit as the spray eats it up.  This lifestyle wouldn’t last long.  He’s going to be eighteen soon and he’s expected to give up his camera, lock his dark room, burry the photos, and burry his heart.  He’d become Timothy, not Tim, proud, polished Timothy the next head of Drake Industries.

The band strikes up, finished with their exercises, and a lilting tune blooms out across the deck.  It’s a rather odd choice for a gala, but Tim had never fully understood the flirty workings of the female portion of Gotham’s upper echelon, so he lets it go, choosing instead to watch the dark murky water below.  A shadow falls across his face and Tim turns to find a figure directly in front of him, a dark form cut out of the harsh glare of the lights behind.  It’s definitely a man, he notes, eyeing the sharp definite lines of the body before him.

The man laughs, long and smooth like the waves.  “I’m not going to bite,” he says shoving his hands in his pockets.  The movement shifts his weight to his right leg, cocking out his hip slightly.  It’s a fluid, seamless transition.

When Tim doesn’t respond, he shrugs and reaches over to pluck the empty flute from the boy’s fingers.  Tim tracks the action, wondering where the rest of his drink went.  He looks down.  Oh.  It’s on his shoes.  The man shoots him an amused smile before bending down and pulling out his handkerchief.

“Thanks,” Tim mumbles embarrassed.

“No problem.”  He dabs at the liquid some more and Tim tries to make out the stranger in front of him.  He could be older than Tim, but not by much—five, six years, maybe—and has dark hair.  Tim frowns and the world blurs just a little bit more, the chandelier and surrounding lights morphing into large clusters of diamonds and squares.  The man’s face shifts out of focus as well and Tim has to squint to make out the shape of mouth.  It’s curving upward—he’s laughing.  Again.

“You okay?” the stranger asks straightening, “Had a little too much to drink maybe?”  His laugh grows more pronounced and his smile exceedingly wider that Tim’s not sure if it’s the waves he’s hearing or the man.

“I’m fine,” he answers anyway, moving to stand, but he tips back, hitting the railing.

The sound quiets as the stranger steadies him and Tim think’s that maybe he’s figured it out.  He whips around to say  _something_ , when everything suddenly shifts into sharp focus.  The cacophony falls to the background and Tim finds himself trying to sort out the various shades of blue in the other’s eyes.  He knows the man is saying something and he probably should be listening, but there’s just something that keeps tugging him away.

(“Ti—”)

It’s vaguely familiar, but it keeps meeting him halfway, reaching up with the barest of touches to tickle him like spray.  He withdraws, trying to focus on the whole picture.

(“—m. Hey! T—”)

He’s on a yacht.  There’s a man, dark haired and blue eyed in front of him.  A party continues in the background.  The band is playing and people are dancing.

(“You oka—”)

Tim flicks back to the man, regarding him curiously and he’s no longer an ink blot on a gold frame.  Surrounded by the twinkling diamonds and floating square glares of the lights, he melts seamlessly into the picture.  Women’s skirts billow out like tents as they whirl by.  The complex patterns of their dresses swirl into a more basic, albeit childishly pleasing design.  The rush of the ocean tumbles into “oohs” and “ahhs.”  His eyes widen.  It’s—

“Tim!” the man cries, shaking his shoulders, “Tim! Speak to me! Are you alright?”

Gone.

Tim’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing, and jerks away.  He hadn’t given him his name.  How did he know?  His shoulders tense and he takes a small step back, bumping into the railing again.

The man looks sheepish, “I, uh, overheard you talking to Dev.”

What?  Oh.  He must have said that out loud.

“Yeah, you did.”

Tim flushes slightly, but repositions himself into a more relaxed stance.  Whoever this was, he needed to fix his impression of him, for his dad’s sake.  “Uh, thanks,” he smiles with just enough teeth, “but I’m alright.  So if you’ll excuse me…”

The man grips his wrist.  It’s strong and determined and Tim can feel his callouses scraping the delicate skin.  His brow furrows as his head snaps up.  His grip is too rough, too  _normal_ , for anyone of Gotham’s elite.

“You’re not,” the man says suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not okay,” he continues, releasing Tim’s hand to tap the boy’s shoulders.  Tim twitches and leans back.  “You’re tense.  Something the matter?”  His eyes are large and concerned, the blues shifting restlessly in his iris and Tim can’t bring himself to lie again.

He sighs, “Just…you know…” he shrugs hoping it says all he needs to say, but the blues brighten and the man leans in closer, so Tim continues, “Life,  the future.  It just kind of crashed down on me out here.”

It seems to be enough because the stranger smiles and leans against the railing, eyes glazing slightly with a faraway look.  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says stretching out toward the spray as it rises up to meet him.  He looks kind of like a dog, craning out a car window, tasting the air, but there’s a strange sort of atmosphere surrounding him—something fluid and soothing, nostalgic and knowing.

“There are times when you don’t know what’s going to happen.  Everything’s dark and cloudy before your eyes,” he sweeps his hand out at the churning, frothing waves, “like you’re drowning and no matter how much you kick and strain, the water just gets heavier and darker and you sink further and further away from that light.”

Tim watches him, noting the pained twist of his mouth and the sudden crinkling around his eyes.  Something in Tim panics, bubbling up in his stomach and crawling out into his fingers until they itch to fix the foreign lines on the man’s face.  He wants to put him back against the strange gold lights and colorful billowing cloth where he can breathe and move to that odd lilting tune.  He’d probably be very graceful.  He could be a dancer, he could be a—

“Tim,” he says suddenly and the twist is gone, in its place a brilliant smile, “do what I do.”

“What?”

His smile gets impossibly wider and he turns back to the sea, tapping something out on the rail.  The ocean rises up at the same moment his mouth opens and he lets a yell. 

Tim jerks back, wildly searching the deck for a large mob of people.  And when none comes out to greet him, he turns back to the man.  He’s grinning and it stretches into that impossible smile when a series of trombones sound behind them.  Tim’s eyes widen as he realizes that the man had timed it perfectly—the scream, the music, the waves.

“Your turn,” he says brightly, whirling Tim back towards the water, “On the count of three.”

Tim starts to panic.

“One…” he mouths.

He attempts to struggle away, but he’s locked into place.

“Two…”

His heart beats nervously in his chest as something builds up around it.

“Three.”

Tim’s mouth opens slowly and a strangled sort of cry escapes.  It’s breathy and choppy and flutters away with the wind, but the man gives him a warm smile.

“That was pretty good,” he remarks rubbing Tim’s shoulders, “for a first try.  Alright!  One more time!”

Tim blinks and tries to protest, but when the man hits “three” it comes out as a twisted shriek.  He blushes and hangs his head as the man laughs.  It’d fallen from his lips like some wrangled, angry bird, squawking in indignation.  The man doubles over, shoulders quivering, as he grips the rail for support.  Blue eyes glitter like lights on the water as the laughter rolls through his body.

The sound washes over Tim, lapping at his sides.  He drowns in it, the warm seeping through his cloths and curling in his chest.  From there it spreads, shooting father through his veins with every beat of his heart.  It reaches his jaw, soothing the tightness, and Tim’s lips falls open and he screams.

He screams until he’s thrust forward.  It tears out of him like the force of Batman’s punch as he knocked down a criminal a few days before.  It scrapes across his throat just as Nightwing’s escrima sticks did when that thug kicked him into the wall.  It’s young and strong like Robin.

It’s every  _ping_ of every new email, every swish of his mother’s dress, every displeased dip in his father’s tone.  It’s the rustle of papers, the sharp clean lines of the office, all the parties, painted faces, painted smiles.  His heart clicks like his shutter, capturing every moment, every sensation that rocks out of him and into the sea.

When it dies out, it takes him a moment to realize he’s shaking, and he forces his pulse to calm.  The man is gazing at him strangely, but it quickly fades into a small smile.

“Better?” he whispers.

Tim nods, “Better.”

“Good, just don’t forget to tell all these people.”

Tim glances up confusedly and then burns red.  The music has stopped.  He can hear the concerned whisperings and the click of heels and dress shoes as people head to the deck.  He hadn’t timed it correctly and now he’s going to have to explain himself.  His father would find out.  He’d call and ask what he was thinking and camera would go, the dark room would lock, there would be no more nights on the streets, no more Batman, no more Robin, nor more Nightwing.

Someone forces his way to through the crowd—it’s Bruce Wayne.  “Dick,” he asks, “is everything alright?”

The man— _Dick_ , and Tim reminded again of the bright lights and colorful swirls he saw earlier—glances down at Tim’s pale face before answering, “Yeah, everything’s fine Bruce.  Just got a little too excited, that’s all.  You know how I get at these things.”  He turns, grinning sheepishly, to address the crowd, “Sorry for the scare folks, guess I had a little too much to drink.”

Bruce eyes them for a moment then laughs and the crowd follows shortly, reassured.  “Alright, everyone let’s move inside, and let Dick here, cool his head.”  The light and airy mood returns to everyone’s relief and the party-goers quickly file back inside.

When last of them wanders away, Tim turns to Dick wide-eyed.  “Why?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Why’d you cover for me?”

Dick brushes off some imaginary dust from Tim’s jacket and straightens the collar, before smiling.  “When you look like you need help,” he presses a thumb between Tim’s eyes, “you get a little wrinkle here.”

Heat floods Tim’s cheeks.  “I don—” he sputters, but Dick slides his hand down to stop Tim’s mouth.

“It’s okay to ask for help, sometimes.”  Dick’s eyes sparkle a bit and Tim immediately thinks,  _Nightwing blue_. He smooths the wrinkle out again and gives Tim a once over, before nodding with approval and heading inside.  “See you around Timmy,” he calls back as he melts into the crowd.

—

The night sees Tim trudging up the stairs to his room then stripping off his tux.  He’s about to toss his jacket to the floor when he spies something hanging out of the pocket.  It’s a handkerchief, royal blue and silk.  A silver “DG” flashes up at him in the moonlight.  He smiles and brings it to his face—sea salt and champagne.

A yawn over takes him and he carefully folds it into a square then tucks it next to the picture frame on his desk.  The handkerchief slumps over covering both a stray snapshot of Nightwing hidden in a pile on his desk, and a corner of the framed photo of a boy and his circus.


End file.
